


Till Death Do Us Part

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Boys Kissing, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock is a Brat, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the whole disaster with Eurus, Mycroft is feeling more and more depressed with each passing day. John and Sherlock, aren't helping, either. After one nasty bout of nightmares preying on his biggest fears, Mycroft has finally had enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> I have dedicated this work to the lovely LadyGlinda, who write some of the best Holmescest fanfictions out there! Let's hear it for LadyGlinda! (I know this work is bad and kinda OOC, but bear with me)  
> Anyhow, this work contains a trigger warning.  
> The chapters are kinda short, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ tough luck, I guess.

 "What do you think you're doing here, Fatcroft?" came Sherlock's eloquent voice as Mycroft stumbled into flat 221B.

"I..I came here to check up on you..." Mycroft hated that voice crack. How curious that Sherlock could cause him to feel so...sentimental.

"Don't bother. Why do you even care? Sherlock doesn't even care about you. He hates you," said John venomously.

"I...I," stuttered Mycroft.

"Don't. You. Dare" hissed Sherlock. John smirked at Sherlock's words and drew Sherlock into a heavy French kiss. Mycroft felt tears leak out of his eyes and sank heavily to the ground.

* * *

 

Mycroft woke up with a sob, alone as usual. He got up and sat down on the bathroom floor, wondering if he should call in sick and end it all today.

 _It'll be better this way_ , he thought.

Sherlock and John hated him.

They would be happy he was gone, if their remarks were anything to go by.

Anthea would miss him for a few days and would go back to business as usual.

The whole country would go on without him.

 _Mummy and Father won't miss me_ , he thought, ever since the whole Eurus thing.

And Eurus? She'll be so bloody pleased that he was gone.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he should call in sick and commit suicide.

Suicide.

The word gave Mycroft an odd thrill. It was...thrilling in a way, to have his life in his hands, to be able to decide exactly how to finish his life in any way he pleased. Mycroft's voice was steady when he picked up his cell phone.

"Hey, Anthea, I'm calling in sick today. Tell the PM that I don't want to be bothered. Can you handle being...I know this is a stupid comparison, but bear with me, can you be me for the day?"

Anthea laughed. "Of, course. I'll come by later today?"

"...Alright..." Mycroft said as he disconnected.

He picked himself up and decided to use razor blades. They weren't the quickest or least bloody way of death, but he deserved to suffer. Mycroft took the blade to his wrists, aiming to draw it out. He was aiming to slit his throat when the doorbell rang. Mycroft groaned and looked at the clock. 1 PM, Anthea's lunchtime. He hobbled over to the door and collapsed loudly, being on the brink of unconsciousness.

Anthea burst in, shouting, "What have you done?!" when she saw his mangled body. "This is a tragedy, why would you do this to yourself! I'll call the paramedics immediately!" ( **That Yandere Simulator reference tho** ) she cried, taking out her cell phone while stabilizing Mycroft. The last thing Mycroft remembered was Anthea's scared voice talking on the phone before he found the sweet release of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I'm so, so, sorry this hasn't been out sooner! My anxiety and suicidal thoughts were acting up, and I had very limited time to write. I hope y'all can forgive me. Also, I'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed or unnatural, as I am very bad at writing smut.

Sherlock was idly sitting on the couch, trying to focus himself into his Mind Palace. For some reason, he just couldn't. His mind kept drifting to Mycroft. Sherlock chalked it up to the events in Sherrinford. After all, people actually died and Sherlock knew Mycroft was blaming himself more and more with each passing day. So why was Sherlock so nasty to him? John as well? The more Sherlock mused upon this, the more convinced he was something completely terrible had happened to Mycroft. Sherlock could feel it in his very bones. As if his phone read his mind, he got a call.

Anthea.

Oh dear. _This really can't be good_ , Sherlock thought, as he picked up his phone.

"Yes?"

"Your brother is in the hospital. I don't know if you care, but he's in Cambridge University Hospital" (I don't live in Britain so I don't really know any hospitals there, but for the sake of this chapter, it's "Cambridge University Hospital.")

Sherlock's heart stopped.

"What for?" inquired Sherlock, though he feared that he already knew the answer.

"Attempted suicide," replied Anthea, her voice finally showing how scared she was by shaking.

Sherlock's breath caught in throat. Why was his strong, resilient, and unmistakably sexy brother doing in the hospital?

"What'd he use?" whispered Sherlock, afraid that his voice would give away how damn scared he was.

"Razor blades," murmured Anthea, a low sob in her voice.

"I'll be there," said Sherlock hoarsely.

"Really!" replied Anthea, caught off guard.

"Yes, Anthea. Has Mycroft's new ordeal made you deaf, as well?"

"No...I'm just having a bit of trouble processing things after Mycroft's...erm...incident."

"Understandable. I'll be there in about thirty minutes." Sherlock disconnected the call and heaved a huge sigh. Hearing news of your brother's plan of early demise was not a healthy way to start your afternoons. Not at all. Sherlock sighed as he pulled on some clothing and got up. He hailed a cab.

"Cambridge University Hospital, please. I'll give you ten pounds extra if you get there within ten minutes."

The driver, a tall, sturdily built black woman, nodded.

"Consider it done. Sit back, buckle up, because we gon' go at the speed of ligh'."

"Actually..." Sherlock began but was cut back when she floored the gas pedal, momentarily pushed back.

"Yessuh? Anythin' you need?" she asked, turning to look at him in the mirror.

"Actually, it's nothing. American?"

"Yessuh. From South Carolina."

"Mhm. " Sherlock took the chance to study the female further. Tall, at least 6 foot 1. Strongly built, with broad shoulders. Dark chocolate skin. Furrowed brows. An easy smile. Pansexual, no doubt. Genderfluid. Black, extremely kinky chin-length hair. Was cheated on several times by males. Lives in a tiny flat with a roommate who never pulls any of their own weight. Ten minutes passed in silence. The taxi screeched when it stopped, startling Sherlock, who was sidetracked by his Mind Palace.

"It'll be eight pounds, sir," came the woman's warm, mellow voice.

Sherlock pulled out twenty pounds and passed it to the female, walking out of the cab. From the outside, the hospital was impressively large. It has the aura of a large, well-maintained, five-star hospital. At the entrance, Sherlock took a breath the steady himself. _Here we go_..., he thought to himself rather nervously. He pushed open the door. A short, black-haired, acne-riddled, glasses-wearing adult looked up from behind the Receptionist's Desk.

"Hello. I would like to know what room Mycroft Holmes is in."

"Please sign in," the man, John Werrier, said, pushing a sheet over to Sherlock. Sherlock signed his signature testily.

The male looked over the signature and replied "Room 78, Floor 1."

Sherlock nodded brusquely and hurried over to the lift, pressing the button for the first floor. He zoned out for the rest of the ride and was started by a loud, though not unpleasant, ding. Sherlock stepped out and looked at the sign that greeted him.

**Rooms 1-50, go Left**

**Rooms 51-100, go Right**

Sherlock turned right. He attempted to take his worry off Mycroft by wondering what John was up to. John. The name of a man who had helped Sherlock make Mycroft feel like he was worth less than the dirt beneath everyone's feet. The name of a man who had helped drive Mycroft to the edge of his sanity; who had helped Sherlock make Mycroft take a razor blade to his throat.

Suddenly, Sherlock became extremely nervous. How would Mycroft react to Sherlock being there? Well, Sherlock didn't have to worry about that because when he entered the room, Mycroft was asleep. Well, not asleep, technically, it was closer to a drug-induced unconsciousness. Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat next to Mycroft. He studied Mycroft intently and grabbed his hand, tracing abstract patterns.

Sherlock fell asleep to Mycroft's pulse and the beep of the heart monitor. He woke up to the feeling of Mycroft slowly rubbing Sherlock's fingers and reverently placing them to his lips.

"You came," whispered Mycroft, a small degree of sentiment leaking into his voice.

"Of course. You're my brother."

At this, a small smile graced Mycroft's lips as he gazed at Sherlock, who's eyes communicated everything that he was unable to communicate with words. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock in understanding.

"Come here, brother mine," he says, pulling Sherlock into the bed with him.

Sherlock relents and hesitantly presses a kiss to Mycroft's lips, waiting for the **_It's wrong, Sherlock, or the "We can't do this, Sherlock_** , but it never comes. Instead, Mycroft presses Sherlock's face to his and it's perfect. There was no need for Sherlock to ask if Mycroft felt the same, for he could see it in his posture and body language.

Mycroft spent two weeks in the hospital, recovering from his injuries.

On the second week, he was ready to leave the hospital. Mycroft had the option of therapy but decided to decline, knowing Sherlock would care for him.

Once Mycroft and Sherlock got to Mycroft's home, Sherlock gazed lustily at Mycroft. Mycroft caught his gaze and smirked, his eyes gazing down at Sherlock's bulge.

"Aroused, Brother Mine?" he drawled, licking his lips.

In answer, Sherlock pulled Mycroft to his chest, kissing him in a passion-lust fueled frenzy. They opened the front door and just barely made it to the bedroom. Sherlock pushed Mycroft down gently and removed his pesky, pesky clothing. When Sherlock finished with Mycroft's clothes, he removed his own. Mycroft hummed appreciatively. Sherlock took a moment to admire his brother: His highly erotic chest hair, long, pale limbs, and gently rounded stomach. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and began sucking Mycroft's nipples. If the noises Mycroft was making were anything to go by, he was definitely enjoying it. As Sherlock moved further down, the noises Mycroft made were louder and more breathy.

"Oh...fuck yes, 'Lock, exactly like that!" he'd say, or "Shit!"

Sherlock stopped kissing Mycroft for a few seconds to reach over to the lube that was on the bedside table. Damn, Anthea was really smart. Sherlock rubbed a good amount of the liquid on Mycroft's dick and into his hole. Then, he proceeded to impale himself on Mycroft's dick. Sherlock allowed himself and Mycroft to get used to the sensation. Mycroft gasped loudly.

"Fuck me, Sherlock, that feels so good!"

Sherlock moved up and down, his fully erect dick rubbing against Mycroft's stomach. Mycroft climaxed first, inside Sherlock's tight hole. Sherlock came second, his come painting Mycroft's chest and face.

Mycroft smiled drowsily at him and murmured "Love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, dear," replied Sherlock, drowsily getting up to get a towel. He wet it gently and rubbed the come off from the bedsheets and Mycroft's chest. When he was done, he curled up next to Mycroft and slung an arm around him, both men perfectly happy and content.


End file.
